The Art of Being Tired
Why Burnout has Become a Badge of Honour
Kate Flores
A few weeks into the semester, someone I barely know groaned dramatically at the back of a lecture hall: “I haven’t slept more than four hours in three nights.” A chorus of nods and sympathetic murmurs followed, as though they’d just shared a war story. I caught myself doing it too, nodding, smiling faintly, complicit. It wasn’t quite admiration, but it was something close. Solidarity? Jealousy? Guilt?
It’s become almost cliché to say that students are burnt out. But what’s more insidious and rarely acknowledged is how we wear that burnout like a badge. Exhaustion has become a form of social currency. The number of all-nighters we pull, the number of deadlines we’re juggling, the sheer velocity at which we live has become part of the unspoken economy of university life. To be tired is to be trying. To be overwhelmed is to be worthy.
This culture is especially potent in places like Trinity. An elite institution in the heart of Dublin, filled with bright, ambitious students, all subtly (and not-so-subtly) measuring themselves against one another. You might not say it out loud, but you feel it when someone mentions they’re triple-majoring and still have time to chair a society. You feel it when someone’s out four nights a week and still manages firsts. You feel it when someone says, without a hint of complaint, that they cried in the library stairwell — but submitted the assignment on time.
Hustle culture didn’t begin with our generation, but we’ve inherited it in high definition. Social media has given us new ways to perform our exhaustion. We post our overflowing timetables, our 2 a.m. library pictures, our energy drinks held by visibly trembling hands. Aesthetic burnout meets curated chaos. The performance of stress is softened with humour and made palatable through irony. We call it girlbossing too close to the sun or having a silly little breakdown, but beneath the self-deprecation lies something darker: the constant, unrelenting pressure to prove we are doing enough.
We’re expected to excel academically, build impressive CVs, maintain friendships, attend events, engage politically, and somehow document it all beautifully online. The result? A kind of competitive suffering. Being tired becomes proof that you are doing university right. That you are taking it seriously. That you belong.
But this mindset is profoundly damaging. It turns rest into laziness. It makes asking for help feel like weakness. It creates a hierarchy of worth based on how close we are to collapse. And for many students (particularly those already dealing with mental health challenges, neurodivergence, chronic illness, or financial stress) this can be devastating. The burnout arms race is not only exhausting, it’s exclusionary.
There’s also a class dynamic at play here. The ability to ‘lean in’ to university life at full tilt is often framed as a personal choice or moral virtue, but in reality it’s a privilege. Some students work long hours in part-time jobs just to stay afloat. Some commute from far outside the city. Some are carers. Some are simply too exhausted before they even begin. And yet, the myth persists that to not be constantly on the edge is to not be doing enough.
We need to challenge the idea that intensity is inherently impressive. That rest is a luxury rather than a right. That productivity is the ultimate form of self-worth. Because ultimately, burnout doesn’t make us better students, it makes us worse. More anxious, less creative, less kind to ourselves and one another.
What if we made balance aspirational instead? What if the real flex was getting eight hours of sleep and still doing well? What if we praised people not just for how much they’re doing, but for how well they’re looking after themselves while doing it?
Universities need to play a role in shifting this culture. That means more than posters about mindfulness or the odd yoga session before exam week. It means embedding genuine compassion and flexibility into how we design academic life. It means recognising that rest is not a break from progress, it’s part of it.
And on a personal level, it means checking in with ourselves. When we talk about how tired we are, what are we really saying? Are we asking for help? Are we showing off? Are we trying to prove we’re good enough? And who are we trying to prove it to?
The truth is, there’s no prize for being the most exhausted person in the room. And even if there were, would it really be worth winning?
